


Doyle

by glacis



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fix-it, saving Doyle - consisting of the stories Matched Pair and Irish Eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doyle

Doyle: Matched Pair and Irish Eyes. Alternate universe; severe manipulation of canon. I like Doyle. This is my fix.

_Matched Pair_

He'd gone to Sunnydale. Followed the vision. Protected his love.

Who'd then followed him home, fought with him, loved him, shared humanity and mint chocolate chip ice cream with him, then forgotten it all in the need to continue the good fight.

Sometimes, life sucked.

Angel crouched low, came in high first with a roundhouse kick then a sharp left-right-left combination of punches and jabs. Two of the five demons in the pack were down now, the other three circling. Growling, he went down under their combined weight.

It wasn't that he wanted to be some sort of super hero. The whole thought of tights just made him wince. But somebody had to do it. He was the most qualified somebody on the block.

And maybe, just maybe, if he did it long enough, some of the guilt would dissipate.

He wasn't able to shift the demons clawing at him, and he felt his skin tear. The sharp pain of pointed teeth sinking into flesh and muscle triggered a defensive response, and he vamped out. Demons flew in all directions, one still doggedly hanging on with clenched jaw to his side. He chopped down and felt the lower jaw disconnect, in pieces, from the upper. That finally eased the bite.

Killed the demon, too. Ignoring the blood dripping down his side, eyes gleaming yellow and fangs flashing, he swept down on the final two demons. A clenched hand ripped the spine out of the back of one's neck and the other punched in and through the second's gut. Dropping the first and shaking the second one off his arm with a slight sucking sound, he sighed.

It seemed his work was never done.

Angel made it back to the tunnels as first light was breaking over the horizon. As usual, it was going to be a beautiful day in Southern California. The light wind would carry sea gulls and ocean breezes along it, tawny skinned children would play in the sand, people would drive with their car tops down and the bright sun would warm the land.

He would sleep through it.

Same shit, different night.

 

"D'you reckon we should wake him up? He doesn't look too good."

"He's sweating. Ick. I didn't know vampires sweat."

"I think ... He's got a fever, Cordelia."

A hand, light, gentle, cool on his forehead. Cool? How could it be cool? It was Doyle. Angel recognized his scent, not to mention the brogue that was thick enough to cut with a knife. But Doyle was human, or at least half human, and his core body temperature was a solid thirty degrees higher than Angel's. How on earth could his hand feel cool?

"I didn't know vampires _got_ sick."

"This one is." The hand disappeared, and Angel whimpered. Bring it back! he thought wistfully. Felt good. Want to feel good.

Don't feel so good.

He didn't realize he's said it aloud until Doyle answered him. "You don't look so great either, man. What happened?"

The covers were pulled down, as gently as the hand had touched him earlier, and he groaned as icy air touched his chest. The fire was all through him, but seemed most intense along the bottom of his rib cage. A tentative finger touched him there, and he cried out in agony.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God," Doyle cursed. From a distance, Angel could hear Cordy gulping. Several times.

"That is so _gross_," she whined, a hint of horror and a whole lot of revulsion in her tone.

"What happened, Angel?" Doyle was very close to him. Angel could feel Doyle's breath on his cheek. It felt good. But he was asking something. Had to be important, he could hear what sounded like fear in Doyle's voice. Angel didn't like that sound in that voice.

"Grottiche," he managed to croak out. "Bit me."

Fingertips touched his side again, pressing slightly, and agony lanced through him again. With a strangled moan, he gave up the fight and allowed himself to pass out.

 

"It's grotty, alright!" Cordelia pronounced. "Yuck! It's oozing yellow and green and --"

"I noticed, Cordelia," Doyle snapped. The smell was awful, and from the looks of Angel, the feel had to be even worse. "And it wasn't grotty, it was Grottiche. Kind of demon. Nasty, feral little bastards, the lot of them." He gave Cordy an apologetic look for the obscenity, but she was oblivious as usual. He shrugged. "Doesn't look like we've got a lot of time. We have to find out how to counteract this little poison trick and we've got to do it fast. You hit the books, I'll take the computer."

"I can do computer!" she started to protest. He didn't take the time to argue, just brushed past her and sat down at the keyboard. She grumbled, but did as he'd asked.

It didn't take long to find the requisite chapter and verse. Cordy let out a "yes!" and bounced up beside him. "Got it!"

Doyle was leaning over to read what she found when they heard Angel's voice, weak but determined, calling from the bedroom. Doyle found himself trailing after her as she trotted into the room, perched on the side of the bed, and began to read, running her finger along the line as she said the words. Angel looked worse, with dark circles under his eyes, which were bright and glazed with the fever.

"Says here that the bite of a grotty demon-"

"Grottiche," both men chorused. She shrugged and kept reading.

"- brings 'fire to the blood and brain until the essence is consumed' -- does that mean what I think it means?"

"Means he's going to die if we don't do something, and do it soon. Does it say anything about a cure?" Doyle walked to the edge of the bed, looking over her shoulder, concentrating on the words so he wouldn't have to see how near to gone Angel already looked. It disturbed him on levels he hadn't thought of in years, and couldn't see Angel ever welcoming. There were limits to what friends would do for one another, and generous as Angel was, Doyle couldn't see a buddy fuck, or even a pity fuck, in the foreseeable future.

"Well, that doesn't make any sense," Cordelia muttered.

"Try us," Angel whispered. "Might." Doyle's eyes were drawn to Angel's face despite his intentions. It was incandescent even burning with fever.

"It says that the cure is to drink from a brackish demon. I thought brackish water made you sick?"

Doyle froze. His eyes met Angel's, who was staring back at him. Cordelia continued to natter on for a few moments before Doyle could unlock his tongue and interrupt her.

"S'okay, Cordelia, I can come up with that." She looked askance at him, and he gave her his very best reassuring smile. She didn't appear reassured, so he dropped it and gave her a sincere look. She looked a few degrees closer to convinced. "I happen to know someone who can come up with, er, just the brackish stuff that'll do the trick. Leave it to me. But perhaps it'd be better if you went home now. I can take care of it from here."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but Angel laid a hand against hers, along the edge of the book. "It's okay, Cordy. I know this friend of Doyle's. He can help. Go home."

Cordelia stared at him for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Angel answered simply. The effort to fight the pain was obvious in both his expression and his voice. "Thank you."

"But the sooner done, soonest mended, so on your way now and I'll get on with it." Doyle didn't want to sound like he was pushing her out, but he also preferred she not find out she was sharing company with a half-Human, half-Brakken demon. The Irish was hard enough for her to cope with. He'd a feeling the blue-green spikes and red eyes would be impossible.

"Shouldn't someone stay with Angel?"

As if in response to her question, Angel abruptly vamped out. He lunged at Cordelia, and she backed up with a shriek, the book falling forgotten to the floor. Doyle flung himself at Angel and muscled him back onto the bed, fever weakness the only thing that allowed him to hold the delirious vampire in place.

"Go now, Cordelia!" Doyle barked at her. She gave him a frightened look and scampered for the door. Not a moment too soon. He stunned Angel with a short right cross, long enough to allow Doyle to leave him unattended and go over to turn the deadbolt. He really didn't want any witnesses to this.

Behind him, he heard rustling as Angel gathered himself for another attack. Concentrating, he shifted form, turning and meeting the vampire's rush in the middle of the floor. Calling himself seven kinds of a fool, trying hard not to think of the insanity in those yellow eyes, he stretched his neck to the side, caught Angel against him, and guided Angel's fangs to his carotid artery.

The first tearing bite hurt like the very devil. The spikes standing out from his face were no impediment -- they were softer than they looked, giving easily to pressure. Angel nuzzled into him, growling breathily as he bit. Doyle cursed fluently under his breath, doing his best to recall every Gaelic curse his mother had ever used on the worst days in an effort to distract himself from the pain.

To his utter amazement, Angel recoiled after the initial bite. He was doubled over, retching although nothing was coming up, and spitting over and over again. There was dark red blood on his lips, but apparently it tasted terrible, because he wasn't having any of it. Doyle stared at him. Well, this was a turn-up for the books. Not only was he going to have to let Angel suck his blood, he was going to have to convince him to do it.

He felt like he was seducing a prostitute. It was just ... bizarre.

But it was necessary. Grabbing Angel by the waist, he hauled the larger body over to the bed and slung him down on it, efficiently if not gently. "I know I'm not quite the vampire equivalent of a five course meal," he panted, slinging himself atop Angel and splaying over his supine body like a starfish. "But you've got one chance, man, and that's by taking a taste of me. So you're going to do it, if I have to take a straw and stick it in me own neck."

With that, he grabbed the back of Angel's head and stuffed the protesting vampire's face into the side of his neck. By now the fever had gotten a strong enough hold on Angel that he was too weak to fight Doyle off at all.

He still wouldn't drink.

Doyle was getting light-headed himself from the loss of blood from the opened artery, and desperation made him snarl. "Goddamnit, man, help yourself! I'm a bloody buffet, literally now, and you're a damned starving man! DRINK!" He scooped up a palmful of blood from his collarbone and thrust the wet hand at Angel's mouth, fingers probing past the fangs to paint the tongue.

It worked.

Angel's tongue curled around Doyle's fingers, licking hesitantly at first, then more firmly. The demon blood must have started to work immediately, because Doyle saw a hint of sanity return to the blazing yellow eyes at the same time that the fanged mouth rounded about his fingers, sucking them clean.

Even with the pain and the blood loss, it was the most erotic thing Doyle had ever felt in his life.

The arousal must have shown somewhere, if not in his scent or his blood, then certainly in the erection that was digging into Angel's belly. Angel responded to that instinctively, too, following as Doyle withdrew his fingers, licking at Doyle's chin, then his throat where blood had splashed across his skin. He licked further down, along the hollow of his collarbone then up to the savaged vein. Doyle couldn't help but moan. The pain was sparkling across his nerve endings, and it felt uncannily like the most intense pleasure he'd ever known.

He held on to that thought as the suction continued, strengthened, and he could feel the lassitude of death along his arms and legs, creeping up his body. The last thought he had, right after he decided that if one of them had to live it was better it be the warrior than the messenger, was that it was a hell of a good way to go. Then vertigo spun his mind into oblivion.

 

Angel came fully back to himself with a thud. He was on his bed, with Doyle spread over his lap, head thrown back in abandon. Doyle's shirt was open, his face and body firmly in demon territory, and Angel was nuzzling against his torn neck. There was no blood left anywhere on his soft green skin, because Angel had licked up every drop of it.

Every last drop.

"No!" Angel moaned, low and deep in his throat. This wasn't supposed to happen. For one thing, vampires didn't drink demon blood because it made them sick. And it tasted terrible. For another thing, this was **Doyle**, his friend, one of the very few friends he had, and Angel couldn't believe he'd killed him.

Although he certainly had drunk demon blood, and far from tasting terrible, after the first flash of nausea, it was actually very sweet. Sweeter, even, than human blood, even the most sweet human blood, Slayer blood. But that didn't alter the fact that this was Doyle draped across his lap. Doyle, in full demon form, dark lashes laying against deep greenish blue skin, Brakken spines drooping sadly against his face.

With no pulse in his throat.

Angel shuddered, drawing Doyle up to him in a fierce hug, and burying his face in Doyle's chest. Waiting for the body to turn to dust. That's what dead demons did, when they died. Turned to ash.

He waited.

Doyle lay there.

After several minutes of nothing happening, Angel reared up and stared down at Doyle, still wrapped in his arms, still draped over his lap. Still in one piece.

Very much in one piece.

Angel unwrapped one arm from around Doyle's body and ran his hand over the previously-gnawed side of Doyle's neck. The skin was smooth, unblemished, unbroken. Greenish blue, but that was normal in this phase of being. As his palm lingered over the cool skin, he felt it pulse under his hand.

He jumped.

Not much, just enough to lose hold of Doyle. Angel stared hard at the demon lying limply across him, and after several long seconds he saw it again. A single pulse. Much too slow to be a normal human heartbeat. Gently lifting Doyle from his lap and laying him on the bedding, Angel heaved himself shakily from the bed and across the room. Picking up the discarded demonology book, he rifled through the pages until he got to the index. Running his finger down the page, he located the entry for Brakken demons and flipped through until he found it.

Very slow metabolism. They could drink for hours without showing the effects. So, that's where Doyle got it. It wasn't **only** the Irish half.

Angel slowly walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Timing them over the next minute, he counted pulses. Six. Approximately one heartbeat every ten seconds. Right on the money for a perfectly healthy Brakken demon.

So. Looked like somehow Doyle had survived being midnight snack for the very hungry vampire. Angel stretched, took a deep breath and an internal inventory. Everything felt ... normal. He ran a hand lightly down his side. All healed up. Smiling slightly to himself, he stretched out next to Doyle, curled up with the book, and did a little light studying while waiting for Doyle to wake up and go back to normal.

Seven hours later he was still waiting, Doyle was still exhibiting the form of his Brakken half, and day was breaking. The pulses were still just as strong, just as steady, and just as slow. Angel hadn't been able to find anything anywhere on what effect being drained had on Brakken demons. He also hadn't been able to find any clues whatsoever about half-demon reactions. Doyle appeared to be in the Brakken equivalent of hibernation. And Cordelia was due in just a few hours.

Putting the book back on the shelf, Angel did some quick planning. He knew that Doyle didn't want Cordy to find out that he was half-demon. So he'd just have to make sure she didn't.

He'd hide Doyle.

Until Doyle woke up, shook away the spikes, and came back to himself. At which point Angel was going to take him to the nearest pub and toast him with the finest malt money could buy.

 

"Angel! You're alive!" Cordy's smile lit up her face. "Relatively, anyway," she qualified the joyous statement. She patted his arm. He nodded at her, giving her his usual look of somewhat amused befuddlement. "So Doyle's friend came through." Angel nodded. "Where is he?" At Angel's questioning look, she clarified, "Doyle, I mean. Where'd he go?"

"Ah," Angel began, thinking furiously. "Some people came. Asking for him. He's ... away."

She gave him a look that she clearly thought meant he couldn't fool her. She **knew** Doyle was hiding from some mob guy's enforcer thugs. Which, of course, meant that he'd fooled her completely. He hid a smile.

Not long after, several auditions just happened to find their way onto Cordelia's social calendar, and Angel sighed with relief when she disappeared. Making his way back into the bedroom, he sat on the side of the bed and studied Doyle. No change. Still spiky. Still greenish-blue. Angel leaned forward and lifted one eyelid with his thumb. Yes. Eyes were still red.

Taking his hand away, he watched the lid settle down, and found himself distracted by the length and thickness of the lashes now resting against the spiny cheek. The previous night was becoming clearer in his memory the more rested he became, and his body was reacting to Doyle's in a distinctly unusual way.

Or perhaps arousal around Doyle wasn't as unusual as Angel wished it would be. Doyle had an odd effect on him. Angel didn't trust people. He trusted Doyle. He didn't touch, or be touched, easily. Yet he had his hands on Doyle all the time. He felt protective in a general way of all humanity, because humans were vulnerable, in much the way he would have felt protective of any harmless group of animals who were preyed upon by stronger, vicious predators. Like himself.

Doyle, on the other hand, roused specifically protective instincts. When hired demons went after Doyle, Angel had actively sought to stop them, even when Doyle himself hadn't asked for or welcomed his help. Every time Doyle had a vision, Angel ached for him, found himself holding Doyle up, doing anything he could to ease Doyle through the pain.

Then, the previous night, when Doyle had offered up everything he had to save Angel's life, Angel had reacted very much as he had when Buffy had done the same thing. The thought shook him to his core.

Was he in love with Doyle?

Before he could even fully articulate the question, the answer echoed in his mind. No. He had only one true love. That was Buffy. Only in her arms could he ever achieve perfect happiness.

But he did love Doyle. And on a partnership level, on a friendship level, on a trusted companion level ... given half a chance he'd fuck him through the floor and enjoy every minute of it. Without once risking his soul.

Of course, as soon as he tried, Doyle would stake him. So it was a moot point.

Giving up on pointless mental ramblings, he settled back against the pillows, picked up a book, and ignored it for the rest of the day as he lay there and watched Doyle's throat, counting heartbeats.

 

The last time he'd felt this horrible, he'd spent the previous evening calling young Oz BamBam. Reciting bad poetry and slaughtering fine literature. Doyle rolled over, further than he remembered being able to in his single bed, and buried his face in the pillow.

It caught on the case.

Now, **that** was not the usual. Blinking painfully into the soft cotton, Doyle experimentally, and very slowly, brushed his cheek against the pillow.

It caught again.

Wondering just what the bleedin' hell he'd drunk the night before to leave him weak as a kitten, with a head the size of a county, and spiked out in full demon face, he concentrated as best he could on changing his demeanor back to his normal pale skinned dark haired blue eyed self.

It didn't work.

Positive now that he'd gone to a pub, disgraced himself, accidentally outed himself and now stood no chance whatsoever with Cordelia -- ignoring the fact that he never had and clinging pathetically to his dreams -- Doyle let out a wail that would have made a banshee proud.

Unfortunately, all it did was make his head hurt. More.

A secondary and unexpected side effect of his wail was the appearance of Angel. Not just at his side, but in bed with him. For a crazy second, Doyle wondered just how **far** out of that closet he'd roared, when memory hit with all the grace and subtlety of a rock slide.

"Ouch," he managed to whimper. Angel patted him on the shoulder. Even that hurt. Doyle ignored him for a second, not quite sure what to say, and did his own little bodily inventory. Head. Present, though at the moment he wished not. Neck. Check. In one piece, even. Arms, legs, torso, all attached as they should be. Erection. Digging a furrow in the mattress an iron plowshare would be proud to own.

Oh, no.

"Wha' happened?" he faked. Angel bought it. Thank God.

"You saved my life." That hand was back, patting him along the shoulder, lingering here and there to give a little squeeze. Doyle's erection throbbed in sympathy. Doyle growled. The hand patted. "Thanks," Angel said very softly.

"Any day, man," Doyle managed to croak. "Now how come my face has frozen like this?"

Thank the good Lord almighty that hand finally withdrew. Doyle could take a breath. Of a sort. A constricted, painfully aroused sort, but it was better than nothing.

"I'm not sure," Angel eventually answered. "You should be dead."

At that, Doyle rolled over, carefully shielding his too-slowly fading erection from too-sharp eyes. "And why is that? I feel fine for a dead man."

"I drained you."

Doyle gulped. There were so many possible connotations to that phrase. He pushed the more delightful ones deeper into the back of his brain and concentrated on the one that would have the most immediate meaning to a vampire. "So if I've no blood left, what's coursing through my veins, then?"

"Blood," answered Angel immediately. "Very slowly. Not as slowly as yesterday. It's sped up." Doyle looked blankly at him and Angel explained a little further. "After I fed, you had no pulse, then it started at six beats per minute."

"Yipes," Doyle managed. He'd really been dead?

"Normal for a Brakken demon."

Doyle thought, again, Really? then wondered if it was time he revisited the few books he'd seen that had information on his demon half. If he really was stuck like this ...

"Then today it's up to thirty two beats per minute."

He's counting? Doyle couldn't seem to get on track, and couldn't seem to say anything, either, so he stayed where he was and watched Angel's mouth move.

"Well, thirty four two minutes ago, then back to thirty. I'm estimating the thirty two."

Doyle closed his eyes and swallowed. "So, if I'm dead, how come I'm breathing? And my heart's beating, albeit slowly?"

"I have no idea," Angel admitted. Doyle wasn't reassured. "But as long as you are, I'm not complaining."

"Me, neither!" Doyle blurted. "Now, how do we go about getting myself back to my normal face and out of the gay apparel of the Brakken type?"

Angel looked at him blankly. Doyle blinked. Okay, so seasonal humor didn't work after the second century, or so it would appear. He sighed. "Smooth skin? No spikes?"

"Noxzema?" Angel asked, straight-faced.

Doyle rolled back over and buried his face in the pillow.

His spikes caught.

That set the tone for the next week. Cordelia came back after a long weekend and made two specific queries after Doyle. It lifted his spirits, eavesdropping in the next room. The fact that she stopped asking after the first day dropped them like a stone.

Angel was around often. He tended not to say much, and spent most of his time staring at Doyle's neck. If he hadn't known better, he'd've sworn Angel was hungry. But anytime he asked, Angel was immediately able to tell him the current pulse count. It was a bit unnerving.

Especially since it made **him** hungry. Not for blood, of course.

For Angel.

He'd tried going out and about a few times, but in his current form he couldn't leave the flat, and the few times he'd ventured past the bedroom door he'd nearly gotten caught by Cordelia. So he'd taken to spending most of his time out on patrol with Angel at night and sleeping away the daytime.

It didn't help any that Angel continued to sleep with him. Well, share the bed, anyway. The first time he'd come in to take his daily nap, Doyle hadn't known he was there until he'd rolled into Angel's chest. It was a nice chest. Strong. Broad. Firm, soft skinned, heavily muscled.

Doyle was rubbing his spikes against it like a cat grooming its whiskers before he could stop himself.

"Itch?" Angel asked quietly, with a touch of laughter just under his voice.

He froze mid-strop. "Uhm, hello?" It wasn't the most intelligent thing he'd ever said, but it was the only thing he could **think** to say. It wasn't easy to find conversational gambits when all the blood he had left in his body was currently heading south at the speed of light.

"Hi," Angel answered whimsically. If serious, quiet and dark could be called 'whimsy'. Oddly enough, Doyle thought they could, if it was Angel.

"Bed?" he asked, then shook his head to try to clear it. "I mean to say, are we in bed? Uhm, I mean, are you in bed? I in you in we in ..." Unable to complete a simple sentence, still nose to nipple with Angel's chest, Doyle floundered. " ... bed?" Angel rescued him.

Angel was good at that. Rescuing, that would be.

"I'm tired. You're tired. If I sleep on the couch Cordy will ask why."

Made sense to Doyle. The Angel rolled over on his side, removing that tempting chest from drooling distance, and Doyle could think in a limited capacity again. Until he looked down.

Good God. The arse was even more incredible than the chest.

At that point, Doyle gave up on sleep. After three days with next to none, falling asleep side by side with Angel was almost easy. Except for the parts of him that were hard, of course.

Determined to get the hell away from Angel's bed and body, Doyle tried everything he could think of to return his face to human normality. Nothing worked. Willing it didn't do a thing. Concentration, meditation, scotch, anger, sneezing, pleading -- nothing worked. Early one evening after Angel had gone out patrolling, Doyle lay back on the bed and finally allowed himself to think about the one thing he couldn't think about while Angel was lying right next to him.

Dark eyes. Soft short tangled hair. Full lips. Square jaw. Broad shoulders. Strong hands with long, artist's fingers. Narrow waist. Long, beautifully-shaped legs. An arse to die for and manly attributes that made the euphemism a truism. Curves and planes, shadows and cream, skin soft as velvet to his touch.

Shortly into the catalog of Angel's charms, Doyle's hands got busy. Roaming over his own chest, through his chest hair to rub at nipples and along muscles, down to his groin to scratch and knead between his thighs. Running his fingers through his pubic hair, weighing his testicles in his hand, sliding back to press at the pressure points behind them. Running his other hand over the shaft of his penis up to the glans, lightly running a nail along the seam, tapping the vein. Gathering the fluid at the tip and using it to ease his way through a thorough and thoroughly well needed session of self pleasure that ended with one hand pulling his balls, the other pulling his cock, and the top of his head feeling like it was flying off.

Panting harshly, the echoes of his final cries still hanging in the air, Doyle fell back against the pillows. Rolled over. Buried his face in the cool cotton.

It didn't catch.

Doyle froze in place, all the tension he'd just released rushing back at the realization that he'd finally found a way to snap out of demon form. He wasn't looking forward to having to jerk off every time he spiked out, though. There had to be another way. As he was turning it over in his mind, he relaxed, relief at the fact that it was **possible** bringing him a different sort of tension release. As his muscles loosened, he could feel his face changing.

Spikes again.

Well, shite. That didn't help matters. He growled into the pillow, then carefully moved against it, brushing his cheek absently against its surface. His norm had been to appear human, and after a few unfortunate accidents when he first discovered his demon half, he'd quickly learned to suppress it until he called for the change. It had been horrible, like going through puberty all over again. Happily, it hadn't taken as long to endure as puberty had, but then the rewards hadn't been all that great, either.

He concentrated hard, as he did when he was training himself back then. With some effort, and not a little headache, he managed to change back to human. Relaxing, congratulating himself on finally licking the weirdness that had left him Brakken so long, he felt the spikes pop out again. Christ on a crutch! What was it going to take to get him back to human and **staying** human?

The thought made him pause. He and Angel hadn't been able to find any explanation for either his inability to shift form or for his unusual heartbeat, too fast for a demon and too slow for a human. The fact that he now could shift, but had to concentrate to remain in human form, was the opposite of what he'd done before the ... encounter with Angel's fangs. Perhaps by Angel drawing so heavily on the demon in him, it had somehow brought the demon to the fore, where before the human had been dominant? Turning the thought over and over in his head, he decided that it **felt** right. Sighing, he set himself to the task of reversing ten years of habit. If he was going to pass as human again, he'd better get used to the idea of keeping his guard up at all times.

The whole idea gave him a headache. But it was better than being in permanent spike-face. And he was both Irish and a demon half-breed. He was used to making the best of a bad situation. He'd just have to do the best he could with what he was given. As usual.

 

He moved back home, practiced remaining in human form as much as possible, then took his courage in both hands and went back to work. Angel looked at him searchingly, but didn't say anything. Cordelia didn't notice anything different. That helped. Then when the vision hit, Doyle knew he was back to what passed for normal in his mixed-up mess of a life.

The Scourge was no stranger to him. The bastards had entered his life peripherally at the same time he was going through his second puberty, learning to control his body so that the hitherto unknown demon aspects would remain decently hidden. He'd been afraid of everything then : afraid of his own body, afraid of the world discovering that he was an abomination, afraid of other minions of Satan coming after him and sending him to hell where he was sure he belonged. When others with the same disfiguration came to him for help, he reacted from the fear, and turned away from them.

God punished cowards.

Doyle's particular punishment went beyond admission of his own guilt and atonement for his part in the deaths of his demon cousins. It meant becoming the unwilling and unwitting messenger for Powers much higher than himself. It meant taking a destroyed life and deconstructing it further, until his only reason for existence was to be a conduit between those Powers and their Warrior.

It meant living his life for Angel.

It meant other things, too, things he only learned as he lived through his past all over again. Only this time he didn't run. This time he protected, as he hadn't in the past. This time the children survived.

It hurt, of course. It hurt when Angel snapped his neck, and he snapped it back. He'd been surprised how fast that pain had faded. It hurt, in a different way, when Cordelia rejected him yet again, and he found himself unable to turn her insults aside with his usual good humor. It hurt when Angel lived up to his track record, and prepared to sacrifice himself to save the innocents.

He still felt the strength of Angel's hand gripping the side of his neck, at the juncture of neck and shoulder, right where Angel had bitten him. Saving Angel's life had been a good idea at the time, and he certainly hadn't done it so the vampire could throw all his work away on a killer weapon from the Scourge.

So Doyle did the hardest thing he'd ever done.

He knocked Angel clear off the catwalk, far enough down and away that he'd have no chance to make it back up before Doyle had done what he had to do. Then he did one of the easier things he'd ever done. He kissed Cordelia breathless.

Angel's "Doyle! No!!" was ringing in his ears as he made the leap from the catwalk to the hanging platform from whence the weapon was suspended.

Doyle could barely see the power juncture through the brilliant white light. It beat against him, flash-burning his eyes, sizzling his skin through his clothing. Gritting his teeth against the heat, he ignored everything to peer through slitted, watering eyes at the cable powering the weapon. His fingers wrapped around the burning hot cords, and he yanked at the connection as hard as he could, screaming with frustration and determination as he put every last ounce of strength he had into disabling the death-dealing weapon.

It didn't detonate. That much, he knew. The jolt had kicked him from the platform when it had powered down, and he fell the depth of the ship's hold. Landed on his back. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't move.

Was incredibly impressed, when he could gather a thought back to his head, that he hadn't been instantly vaporized by the crystal weapon.

The refugees were gathered around him, oohing and aahing, all big eyes and grateful thanks. Doyle looked up into the remains of the weapon, a big sheet of glass, and saw his reflection. He was spiked out, full Brakken face, but his skin was a funny pinkish red color. It looked great with his red eyes, but the green spikes looked strange. He resembled nothing so much as an odd sort of Christmas ornament. Before his thoughts could wander into even stranger pastures, Angel shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt beside him.

There was that hand on his neck again.

"Doyle?"

Yeah. That was him. Doyle. Hero. He managed a slight smile, and a dazed nod, but his voice wasn't quite up to talking yet.

From behind Angel, the leader of the demon half-breeds stepped forward. "We didn't know. There are _two_ Promised Ones. Will you come with us? To Sanctuary?"

"The Scourge are gone." Doyle found his voice. The leader nodded.

"But we are still outcast. This place that we've found, it's our own. Will you come?" His glance encompassed both men. "You are welcome."

Angel helped him into a sitting position, then settled back. Doyle leaned into him and looked up at the man offering the invitation. For a moment he was almost tempted. A place where he could be himself. Where he could figure out who **himself** actually was. A place where he didn't have to hide.

But he'd go alone, if he did. Angel wasn't going to hide away on some tropical island paradise whilst there were still innocents out there roaming the night unprotected. Doyle smiled, wincing as the burned skin on his face protested, leaning unobtrusively against the sturdiness of Angel's thigh supporting his back.

"Thanks, but my life is here," he said softly. The refugee leader looked as if he would protest, then fell silent as Cordelia finally elbowed her way through to the center of the group.

"What are we waiting for? Are you okay, Doyle? That was incredibly brave, if incredibly stupid. I can't believe you kissed me. Are you still human? Way to save everybody! So, are we still on for dinner?" She ran out of breath and looked at him expectantly. He grinned at her.

Shook his head.

The spikes disappeared.

"Surely, Cordelia. Let's see these fine people on their way, then it's to Portofino's we go."

Angel's hand withdrew from his shoulder. He felt the loss immediately, but didn't know what to say to get it back. Or even if he should say anything. So he didn't.

It took longer to get off the ship than Doyle would have liked. There were too many thank-yous, and Angel was no help, taking off with his patented disappearance into the night. Doyle relied on Cordelia to be the battering ram that finally got them through the crowd of refugees, and after a quick stop at his apartment to change into something less crispy, they made it to the restaurant as the dinner rush was thinning out. It only took a minor bribe to get them a table. The maiter d' was distracted by Cordelia's décolletage.

It was lovely. Cordelia was glittering, the food was delicious, and catching sight of his reflection in his wineglass he decided he just looked like he had a bad sunburn. Not like he'd tried to make a supreme sacrifice to save his best friend's life.

Again.

There was a pause in the torrent of babble from the other side of the table, and he smiled, ignoring the slight pain from his stretched, tight skin. "Go on, then," he urged. "What happened next?" Not that he had the slightest idea what she was talking about. But judging by her brilliant smile, she was happy, enjoying herself, and that had been the plan. From Cordy's side of the table, it looked to be a perfect date. She was gorgeous, he was acceptably dressed, the restaurant was exclusive and expensive, and she was encouraged to talk about herself all night.

Doyle was bored out of his mind.

He liked Cordelia. He really did, and not just because she was beautiful. He'd thought about this date for months, when it seemed it was nothing but a pipe dream. Now that it was there and happening ... all he could think about was Angel.

"Are you alright, Doyle?" Cordelia's question broke into his abstraction. He glanced up.

Damn. She was looking concerned. Not happy. He made the effort to look engaged. "Oh, fine, Cordelia, just a bit tired. Long day and all. But I'm interested. I like listening to you. Go on ahead and tell me more." That seemed to reassure her, and soon she was happily bubbling on about some audition or other with some independent producer he'd never heard of. It set the tone for the evening. It was very pleasant, surprisingly fun when he wasn't distracted by wicked thoughts of Angel, and there were no sparks whatsoever.

They left the restaurant and drove for a little while, enjoying the night air, and the lights, and the quiet. For a city that didn't sleep, Los Angeles was surprisingly quiet at night, most people going about in cars, in small clumps clustered around night clubs, or theaters. There were few people actually walking the streets. Doyle smiled at his thought. Well, of course they weren't walking the streets if they could help it.

There be monsters, there.

Eventually the talk ran out, and he suggested going down to the pub for a nightcap. Again, it was pleasant, and fun, and he could as well have been out with his sister. He didn't drink nearly as much as he wanted to, needing to keep tight rein on his control so he didn't spike out in the middle of the pub and frighten the patrons. So when he did go to walk her to her door, he was depressingly sober.

She paused at the door. "Would you like to come in?" It was partly form, partly curiosity, very little actual sexual interest on her part and none on his. He smiled, a genuine smile that warmed his face and relaxed her a mite.

"I don't think so, Cordelia. I had a wonderful time tonight, and I'm not just saying that."

"But?" she dropped into the pause after he finished speaking.

"But it's not there, now, is it?" His voice was soft, and a little wistful. She suddenly looked **much** more relaxed.

"I like you, Doyle. A lot. But you're right. Friends?" She positively beamed at him.

"Friends it is," he grinned back, and pecked the end of her nose. She laughed aloud, then let herself into her flat, waving a little before shutting the door between them. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Being at loose ends wasn't quite the way he'd envisioned ending this evening.

He got back in his car and drove around aimlessly for awhile. The evening was relatively young, only a little after two, and he could have found a club to play at until he felt tired enough to go home and try to sleep. As wound up as he felt, that should only take about three days. A mental image of standing on a table spouting off about Betty Rubble in full demon face put the kibosh on that idea right then.

Without making a conscious decision, he found himself walking up the steps to Angel's offices, then winding his way down the long way to get to Angel's living quarters without firing up the lift.

He found himself leaning up against the wall in Angel's bedroom, staring into the darkness, vaguely impressed by his own night vision as he watched Angel sleep. He didn't know how much time had passed before he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Then stretching out along his side.

Brushing the hair back from Angel's forehead.

Nuzzling Angel's neck.

Nibbling on him.

Running the edge of his elongated incisors against the cool white column of throat, and slipping the sharpened points into the flesh there.

 

Angel was dreaming, an incredibly erotic dream the likes of which he hadn't had since he turned Drusilla. He was naked, lying in bed, trapped in the bed linens, unable to move as she hovered over him, brushing his face with her fingertips. Cool breath misting over his skin, along his jaw. Soft lips moving over his skin, skimming over the surface, returning time and again to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then suddenly diving in and biting him. Biting and needing and drawing together -- flashfire arousal lanced through his body, and he thrashed, only to realize several things at once.

It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't Drusilla.

He wasn't tied down.

He vamped out, exploded from the bed and attacked his attacker, arms and legs flying out in defensive moves too fast for a human eye to follow. His attacker wasn't human, though, and countered every single move. By the simple expedient of wrapping himself around Angel like a blanket and smothering his attack.

Angel fell back onto the bed, carrying his attacker with him. He didn't recognize the vampire struggling against him, but something held him back from releasing his full strength against the stranger. Conflicting emotions twisted in him, to fight, to stop fighting, to hold him, to throw him far away and protect himself ... to protect the attacker. The complexity of his own reaction threw him, and he instinctively bit at his attacker's neck, his oldest and most ingrained instinct coming to the fore.

He was delicious.

Angel buried his face in the other vampire's throat at the same time that the other vampire bit into his own neck. Their arms were around one another's bodies, their legs tangling together, groins thrusting against one another in a frenzy of blood lust in all meanings of the phrase. The intensity couldn't be maintained for long, and Angel screamed around the bloodied flesh in his mouth as he climaxed.

He felt the other vampire convulse and moan at the same time.

Falling into a heap atop his erstwhile attacker, Angel felt his features shift. He knew he should remain in vampire form as long as the threat existed, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to consider the man huddled in his arms to be a threat. He pulled back just far enough to be able to see the other vampire's face, not bothering to unplaster their bodies from one another.

Handsome, in vampire style. Clear dark eyes, soft dark hair, creamy white skin even paler than his own. A fine sensuous mouth, smeared with Angel's blood, and wickedly long fangs in a surprisingly delicate jaw Long, thick lashes blinked over those dazed eyes, once, twice. Then the other vampire shook his head as if to clear it.

Mid-shake, that face shifted form.

Slightly reddened green-blue skin. With spines waving from it. Bright red, still dazed, eyes.

By the end of the shake, it had shifted again, into Doyle's familiar, creamy skinned, dark haired, blue eyed visage.

With Angel's blood on his lips.

Angel opened his mouth to ask him what the hell had happened to him, when Doyle beat him to the punch. "Wha' happened?" he slurred. Before Angel could so much as shrug ignorance, Doyle's hands flew to his head, his mouth dropped open, and his eyes clenched in pain. "Oh, damnit all to hell!"

Deciding that questions could wait, Angel gathered Doyle up in a full-body embrace, ignoring the stickiness pressed between them, and rocked him gently through the agony of the vision. When the body clamped in his arms finally stopped shaking, Angel asked quietly, "What is it?"

"Guy, in trouble. About to become vampire kibble."

Angel nodded, briskly stood Doyle up and led the way out into the night, with a brief stop at the wardrobe to get dressed. Neither one of them said a word, although he noticed Doyle was touching his lips with his fingertips as if he didn't know where they'd come from or to whom they belonged.

He could relate.

They had a lot to figure out between the two of them, but first there was a mortal to rescue. In short order, Doyle led them to the alley he'd seen in his vision, not far from the offices. Angel spared a thought to wonder if he'd been guided by fate or karma or the Powers That Be to set up shop in the middle of Vampire Central, then shrugged off the thought and swung into action.

There were eight vampires running in this pack. They'd cornered a young man in the alley, circling and taunting him, and under the dark rich tone of his skin he was green with fright. Angel kicked the legs out from under the first one and knocked a second one face-first into the wall. Heavy hands landed on his shoulders but before he could turn to face the others he heard a feral growl.

From out of the shadows at his back, Doyle, in full vampire mode, dove forward into the remaining half dozen vampires. For a split second, Angel wondered which side Doyle was on. He well remembered the ravenous hunger a newly-made vampire felt. Then Doyle snapped the neck on one vampire and yanked another off the mortal with one fist in the vampire's hair.

Angel grinned.

From there it degenerated into a free-for-all, and Angel and Doyle worked together as if they'd been fighting as a team all their lives. The remaining living vampires in the gang, all three of them, staggered together and two ran for the entry to the alley. One, the oldest of the lot, snarled back over her shoulder as she turned for one last attack.

"Filthy perversions! Tainted! You'll pay for this!" She flew at Doyle, all scorching eyes and flashing fangs. He ducked, swept up a piece of broken wood, brought his hand up, and spiked her. Her scream dissipated as she turned to dust.

Angel stared at the pile of ash for a moment, turning her words over in his mind. A sound behind him caused him to turn back. Doyle was standing over the trembling mortal. Angel was at his side in an instant, just in time to hear Doyle say softly, "You okay, man?"

The mortal nodded jerkily. His eyes were huge in his face, but he looked less green now that he wasn't in imminent danger of being eaten. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Doyle's face.

"Get along with ye, now," Doyle urged, and waved the man toward the other end of the alley, the opposite direction from where the vampires had retreated earlier. The man just kept nodding, then scrabbled away and ran as fast as his shaking legs could carry him.

"Uhm, Doyle?" Angel asked. Doyle turned to look at him. "Spikes," he explained.

"Oh, right," Doyle sighed, then shook his head, taking him from demon form back to human. "I keep forgetting."

They stood for a moment, surrounded by the carnage they'd created, looking anywhere but at each another. The silence stretched, grew awkward.

"Well, if that's all then-"

"What happened back-"

Both voices started, and stopped, simultaneously. Angel finally looked at Doyle. It took a minute more before Doyle could look at Angel.

"We have to talk." Angel's voice, quiet but firm, echoed by Doyle's nod. Doyle turned and headed back toward the office. Angel followed. For all their need to talk, not another word was exchanged until they made it all the way back and were sitting, facing one another across the small wooden table in Angel's vastly underutilized kitchen.

Angel stared at Doyle. Doyle stared at the table top. Finally, Doyle sighed and asked, "So, what's your take on the situation?"

"I've been thinking about that." Doyle gave him a 'no shit' look, and the corner of Angel's mouth quirked up into what passed for his smile. "I think the Scourge weapon didn't kill you because it only killed mortal flesh."

"Yeah, and what am I? Chopped liver?" Doyle's face stilled. "I guess that's the question, then, isn't it? What _am_ I."

"I think I killed you," Angel went on. Doyle stared over at him, an arrested look on his face. "When I drained you. I think I killed you, and you turned. By the time you were hit by the Scourge weapon, you weren't killed because you weren't mortal. You were half demon ... and half vampire."

Doyle swallowed heavily. "And how do you come up with that?"

Angel licked his lips. Doyle's eyes followed every movement. "I recognize the scent of a vampire I've created," he explained quietly. "When you first came to me tonight, I smelled you in my sleep. I thought you were ... someone else. Another vampire I'd created."

Doyle nodded, a small, involuntary-looking movement. "If that's the case, then, how come I'm still with the visions? Why do I still care what happens to humans, if I'm not one myself anymore, if I haven't any soul?"

Angel leaned forward and captured Doyle's hands in his own. They weren't cool, any longer, they felt warm to his touch, slightly warmer than his own. "I think the visions are tied to the demon half of you," he mused aloud.

A tiny sound of agreement escaped Doyle. "Yeah, that'd make sense. They started because of the demon in me. So, what, they're not done with me yet? Not over 'til the last man's down?"

"Something like that. I don't think they're done with either of us," Angel agreed. "As to your soul ... maybe that's part of the bargain. You get the visions, and you have to help me. In return, you keep your soul."

"Bit of a matched pair, then, aren't we." It wasn't a question. Doyle's eyes had gone huge in his face, and he was swallowing rapidly, as if his mouth had gone dry. His gaze had dropped from Angel's mouth to his throat, and he wasn't blinking. Angel sighed.

"Hungry?"

Doyle licked his lips in answer. Angel got up and crossed to the refrigerator, snagging a bag of blood from the top shelf. "Have to remember to stop by the butcher's," he muttered to himself. A presence behind him, warmth plastered along his back, arms around his midriff, and a busy mouth at the side of his neck informed him that Doyle had moved. With some difficulty, he turned in Doyle's arms. Doyle's mouth immediately latched onto his throat.

Bending his knees slightly to allow Doyle full access, Angel nipped the top off the bag of blood and drank deeply. Arousal was gathering in his stomach and down the back of his legs, making his fangs itch and his hands clench. He emptied the bag and tossed it behind him, letting it fall where it would. Reaching back with one hand while he still had some motor control, he grabbed another bag. Shuffled them both forward and heeled the door shut. Maneuvered them both toward the bedroom, Doyle drinking happily from him all the way back. He dropped onto the bed, Doyle still attached, and started in on the second bag as Doyle's hands busily stripped him of his clothing.

They had a long night ahead of them. If they were lucky, many such nights. He cupped the back of Doyle's head with one hand, lazily thrust his hips against Doyle's, and polished off the second pint. He had the feeling he was going to need his strength.

 

_Irish Eyes_

One of these days _something_ was going to go right. The stars would be in alignment, her voice would do exactly what she wanted it to do, a major producer would just happen to be having an iced latte with the casting director while she performed brilliantly and they would both fall instantly in love with her, leading directly to the life of fame, fortune and acclaim for which she was destined.

She just had to nail this stupid fabric softener spiel and the door would be _open_.

Cordelia sighed to herself and pushed the door of Angel Investigations open, wincing as slightly as possible to minimize wrinkling around the eyes. The sun was ridiculously bright this early in the morning. What she _really_ needed was a huge mug of coffee and something sinful with cinnamon on it, but she'd settle for the skim milk Angel kept in the fridge. It wasn't as if he needed it, after all, and her budget didn't exactly extend to luxuries like, say, food. But if she tried to say Downy Does It Better a dozen times with her stomach growling, today would _definitely_ not be her day of discovery.

Rubbing one hand gingerly across sleepy eyes, careful not to put too much stress on delicate skin, she plodded down the stairs toward the kitchen. Halfway down the staircase, she froze.

There were noises coming from down there.

Her eyes widened, and her breath caught. The last time there were noises coming from Angel's bedroom a particularly icky goo-demon of some kind had tried to slime the entire office out of existence. If it hadn't been for a convenient party that she simply had to attend, she'd've been sucked into the clean-up crew, and the whole thing had been just too disgusting for words. Not to mention the smells. Keeping one hand on the railing, ready to bolt back upstairs at the first sign of slime but not willing to leave her curiosity unsatisfied, Cordelia peered around the corner into the shadows of the bedroom.

She squeaked, involuntarily, and muffled it with her hand.

No slime, that she could see, although there did seem to be plenty of other ... fluids. Along with a lot of energetic activity. Frozen on the fourth step from the floor, she couldn't have ripped her eyes away from that activity if her life had depended on it.

Angel had his game face on, and was peering up into Doyle's face, who had his back to her. And quite a back it was, too. Not a bad ass, either. Great legs, come to think of it. Doyle was digging his knees into the mattress, every muscle from his neck to his heels straining, butt flexing as he pumped away. At Angel. Into Angel. Whose own heels were planted pretty firmly in the mattress, hands clawing at the sheets, as he howled at the ceiling. The whole bed was rocking.

For Cordelia, her whole world was rocking.

Angel. And Doyle. Doyle _doing_ Angel. And Angel digging it. Big-time. They were both sweating, and groaning, and now Doyle was kissing Angel's neck, or licking it, or biting it, and Cordy was sweating too. Angel's legs came up and wrapped around Doyle's hips, his feet sliding along the back of those trembling thighs, curving around the backs of Doyle's knees. Doyle's hands were moving now, too, reaching down between them, and Cordelia leaned forward unconsciously, knowing theoretically what he was doing but having an uncontrollable urge to _see_ it. The stair beneath her foot creaked and she froze again.

Angel was wailing, now, and Doyle was babbling something Gaelic-sounding at him, so neither one of them heard it, but the possibility of discovery was enough to frighten Cordelia backward up the stairs toward the relative safety of the outer office. Forget the milk, she wasn't that thirsty after all. She licked dry lips. Well, she was, but no way in hell was she going to go back down there and get caught up in the floor show again.

She wouldn't want to leave, if she did.

Head full of impossible possibilities and improbable positions, Cordelia let herself back out into the early morning sunshine and wandered off in the general direction of her audition. She didn't even notice the frantic looking demon with the droopy ears making his way toward the office as she was leaving. She had other things on her mind.

Needless to say, the audition was a bust. She kept drifting off in the middle of words like touchable, soft, silky, sensuous ... and while the little whimpers that escaped at odd moments did render the casting director speechless, it wasn't exactly the kind of speechlessness that had 'she's such a wonderful actress!' written all over it.

She didn't even bother calling in sick. She just went back home, fell in bed, and pulled the covers up over her head.

 

Angel barely had time to get his trousers zipped before the clatter of steps started down the stairs toward his living quarters. Running his finger teasingly down the soft spikes on Doyle's blissed-out face, he grabbed a shirt and strode from the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. He could hear the sounds of sluggish movement and grinned briefly to himself. Doyle would join him as soon as he got enough energy to haul himself out of bed. It had been a rather intense good morning call.

A demon with wispy hair, droopy ears and fashion sense straight from a bad episode of the Rockford Files stumbled to a halt at the base of the stairs. "Sorry for busting in like this, pal, but there was nobody outside, and the door was open, and I really need help, and they say you can help people, well, demons, but hey, we're people too, ain't we? And boy, do I need help."

In more ways than one, Angel thought, eyeing the demon's jacket, then waved a hand toward the kitchen table. "Like some coffee?"

"Yeah, please, thanks, they're trying to kill me, he's been following me forever. Nearly killed me twice already, and I was wondering, can you help? Ow, that's hot!" as the motormouth slopped coffee over his hand in his attempt to talk and drink at the same time.

Angel settled himself opposite the distraught demon and nodded soothingly. "Who's trying to kill you?"

"Could be any number of people ... I'm a truth demon, and I was in Vegas for awhile, and I kinda got on the wrong side of some people you probably wouldn't wanna get on the wrong side of, but hey, a demon's gotta make a living, you know? But I'm not really sure. Just this guy, on this motorcycle, he keeps showing up behind me, and then I get spooked and leave, and whosoever I'm with ends up deader than a doornail. Willya help me?"

The door to the bedroom quietly clicked shut, and Angel's eyes flickered to Doyle and back to the frightened demon. Doyle was standing with his back against the closed door, staring intently at the demon. He was frowning, lines between his brows, lids half lowered over intense blue eyes.

"Who are ye?" he asked abruptly. The demon spun around in his chair, almost unbalancing and falling out of it.

"Sheesh! Scare a guy half to death why dontcha?" Doyle just stared at him. The demon swallowed, looked uncertainly at Angel then back to Doyle. "Name's Barney. I'm a truth demon-"

"I heard," Doyle cut him off. "What do you expect Angel to do? Kill this guy for ya?"

The demon turned even paler, a feat Angel would have considered impossible if he hadn't seen it for himself. Barney was shaking as if he had palsy, sweating, and his eyes were pleading, going from one to the other of them as if they were the only hope he had on Earth. "Just stop him! The guy's a killer! I thought you guys **helped**!"

Angel hushed him absentmindedly. "We'll help." Rising and walking swiftly past Barney, patting him once on the shoulder as he walked by, he gestured toward the office. "You stay here," he directed Barney, tossing the words over his shoulder as he preceded Doyle up the stairs. Once they were safely away from those big ears, he reached over and touched the frown lines along Doyle's brow, smoothing them with a fingertip. "What's up?"

"I dunno, man," Doyle responded, leaning into the soft touch. "I just have a really bad feeling about this guy."

"A vision?"

Doyle shook his head. "Nah, nothin' so specific. Or painful."

He nodded, stepping reluctantly away from Doyle. "Stay with him while I check out this stalker," Angel asked him. "See if the feeling gets any more ... specific."

Doyle grinned at him. "Watch yersel'. I'll take care o' the weasel."

Angel grinned back, briefly, then headed for the entrance to the tunnels. Another day, another psychotic. Things never got boring in LA.

It didn't take long to track the tracker. Whoever the biker was, he was an amateur. Angel found his way to the cheap hotel room, slipped the lock easily, then rummaged through the small suitcase of tools. Stakes of various sizes, a couple bottles of holy water, a few crucifixes, a hand axe, sundry small spiked weapons -- standard vampire/demon hunting equipment. Mostly old, someone's hand-me-downs. Looked like a baby slayer wannabe looking to make a name for himself. Angel sighed. Another innocent in the middle of a war zone. The babysitting just never ended.

The door burst open behind him, not a surprise since he'd scented the human several minutes before the Grand Entrance. What could be construed, with bad lighting, as a menacing figure in black leather faced him from the doorway.

"Don't move," a low baritone voice growled at him. A small but lethal-looking crossbow was aimed at his center mass.

Of course, the figure was standing much too close, and action was as fast as thought as Angel grabbed the bow from the gloved hands, snapped a wrist behind the slender waist and dumped the Vampire Hunter on his belly on the bed.

"Wesley." He should have known. "What are you doing?" Or trying to do, he refrained from asking.

"I am a rogue demon hunter!"

Of course. Just what Angel would have thought he was. If he didn't already know he was a wuss, a poser, and a complete waste of genetic material. "Any luck?"

He could feel the human's blush from three feet away through two layers of leather.

"Yes!"

No.

"I'm tracking a very dangerous demon! He's already killed several other demons. He appears to be harvesting organs for some nefarious purpose ... I say, would you mind taking your knee from the small of my back? I could speak much more clearly if my face wasn't pressed to the bedcovers."

But then you could speak much more clearly, Angel thought with a touch of malice, but he did ease up on the pressure. Wesley managed to wriggle onto his back, then sit as upright as possible with Angel still looming over him. "He says you're trying to kill him."

Wesley's face brightened. "You've talked to him!"

Self-evident. Moron. Angel stared down at him and didn't say a word. Wesley's expression dimmed again.

"You don't believe me."

"You said you were a demon hunter," Angel reminded him. Wesley nodded firmly and opened his mouth. Angel spoke before he got the chance to start babbling again. "What do you do with them when you catch them?"

Wesley's mouth remained open. No sound came out. Angel considered this an improvement.

"You don't kill them, then?" Reasonable. Calm. Angel eyed Wesley with some interest. Would he admit it?

"... haven't actually ... **caught** one yet ..."

Another improvement. Honesty. He tossed the bow back to Wesley, making sure it was uncocked before he did. Wesley fumbled the catch, blushing again. "C'mon. And be careful with that thing. You could hurt somebody."

Turning his back to the thoroughly embarrassed ex-Watcher, Angel sighed and headed back toward the tunnels. Wesley, bumbling around on his turf, as well as having to put up with Cordelia. Just what he needed to make his life complete.

Completely miserable.

Thank God for Doyle.

 

Barney attempted to be charming. Doyle stared at him.

Barney attempted to mind-fuck him with some yammer about Doyle's deepest fears and insecurities. Doyle stared _through_ him.

Barney reached for the scotch bottle. Doyle swatted him.

It could have gotten ugly, but The Powers That Be had a case of inconvenient timing. Giant red-hot pincers pierced Doyle's brain at both temples, squeezing until his head imploded, all the pain on God's green Earth poured through his ears, and his body seized up, curling him into a fetal ball that was the point of intersection for every nasty thing he'd ever dreamt up in his worst nightmares. The agony went on and on for eons, disassembling his mind, body and soul, flinging them into the far corners of the universe and giving the bloody fragments to the Little People to play football with 'em.

Then the vision passed and he was able to breathe again.

Barney was staring at him.

"What the bloody hell's wrong with you?" he snarled, furious at having been seen in such a state by anyone but Angel or Cordelia.

"Not a thing," Barney answered absently.

Doyle ignored him, arm flailing out for the bottle of scotch, tears leaking from the corners of his now tightly-clenched eyelids. The worst hangover times ten wasn't a patch on a vision. Idly, waiting for his brain to shrink back small enough to fit in his skull again, he picked up a pencil and doodled the strange image he'd seen in his vision in the margin of the sports page lying abandoned on the table. He wrote a tiny 'ouch!' next to it, his black sense of humor coming to the fore.

Vaguely he was aware of a beeping sound that the tiny portion of his brain not currently concerned with reassembling itself identified as a cell phone, and Barney whispering gleefully into it. He shook his head, bit off a few colorful curses before they could leave his tongue at the resultant mini-explosion of pain, and concentrated on their unwanted client. Frustratingly, he couldn't hear what was being said.

He pulled himself up, shakily hanging onto the kitchen table, and started toward the other demon. He'd gone a whole two steps before Barney swung around, clobbering him full across the jaw. Doyle went down, taking the chair and table with him, then a lifetime's worth of pub-fighting instincts caught him up, and he went with the flow. An uppercut that started at his ankles knocked Barney on his arse, but the truth demon bounced back up, and a right cross hammered Doyle right back down to the floor. He felt something hard and wooden coming down, and rolled desperately to get out of the way.

He didn't make it.

If not for the feeling of impending doom, he'd've not minded blacking out for a spell. Those visions were a real bitch. As it was, he didn't have a hell of a lot of choice. The world faded to black as his arms were wrenched behind him, and that impending doom felt much, much closer.

Then he didn't feel anything at all.

 

Wesley didn't say much in the tunnels on the way back to the office. It was just as well. Angel was a bit perplexed about the ex-Watcher's move to LA, but half-feared asking. He had a strong notion once Wesley began talking again he'd never get the man to shut up. Coming up along the back alleyway behind his office, thankful for the cover from the overhang between the buildings, he nearly stumbled over a gray mass lying at his back door.

A Goren demon. Dead, or nearly so. Signs of struggle, blood all over his face, and most distressing of all, a hacked off stub on his forehead where his horn used to be. Angel winced. That had to've hurt. The Goren was mumbling. Angel knelt down, trying to hear. Beside him, there was a rustle of leather as Wesley did the same.

"Bishwot li mat po liowen! Bishwot. Mackilet ne jalemon ... bishwot, bishwot ... " His breath rattled in his throat. Angel reached out and gently shut his eyes.

"What did he say?" Wesley asked, more subdued than Angel had ever seen him.

"I was kinda hoping you could tell me," Angel replied, carefully examining the corpse before rising to step over it and enter the building. Behind him, Wesley harrumphed and stepped gingerly to join him.

"Well, some of the words were familiar, but I'd have to do some brushing up on my Gorenli dialects to be certain." They clattered down the back stairs and headed along the corridor toward Angel's place. "The one repeated word, 'bishwot,' is a complex term, which could mean 'be on guard,' 'danger,' or 'perilous.' I **think** 'jalemon' is something to the effect of 'gatherer' or 'forager' although I don't see how that-"

Angel stopped dead, and Wesley ran into him, effectively cutting off the stream of words. Before the man could remonstrate, Angel tore down the hall at full speed, vamping out as he went. He threw himself at the door, reacting instinctively to the scent of his spawn in pain -- much like the spike of scent Doyle threw when he had a vision, but more intense, with fear and anger mixed in with the pain. The door flew open and he raced inside, snarling, eyes sweeping from side to side.

The kitchen was a shambles. The table and chairs were splintered, the refrigerator was shifted sideways, the lamp was lying on its side, broken, the shade flung across the room from it. Whoever had taken Doyle had had to fight to get him. Unfortunately, it was a fight Doyle had lost.

A harsh panting in the doorway behind him reminded him of Wesley's presence. For an instant, pure rage nearly made him turn on the man and rip his head off. If it hadn't been for Wesley, Angel would have been there when the attack occurred, and Doyle would have had protection. God only knew who the attackers were. Or where Barney had gotten to, or if they'd gotten him too.

A tiny, fearful whimper brought him back to himself, and he looked down to see Wesley cringing in the corner by the door. Angel willed himself to relax back into human form, and reached a hand down to haul Wesley to his feet. The poor man looked terrified. Not that it was much of a stretch for Wesley.

"What on earth-"

The screech from the doorway brought him around to see Cordelia staring at the wreckage of the kitchen. Her hands were on her hips and her eyes were huge. Angel took a deep breath. He really didn't have time for this, not with Doyle missing.

"What happened? Where's Doyle? What's going on? Have you been fighting? Didn't look like there was too much to fight about this morning, I can't believe even you could mess up a relationship that fast, Angel."

He knew his mouth had dropped open and his eyes were bulging, but he couldn't seem to get a word out. It was just as well, really, because she swept right on, and he wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise even if he _had_ been able to get one out.

"What's that in the corner? WESLEY? Good lord, what is this, LA is the reject space for all of Sunnydale's losers? Next thing you know Xander will be camping out on the doorstep. And what is that smell? When did we get a cat? 'Cause that sure smells like cat pee."

A strangled moan behind him made Angel aware of Wesley's complete humiliation, and the smell of urine and leather made him wrinkle his nose. It appeared he'd been even more fierce looking than he'd meant to be when he'd rounded on Wesley earlier. In an effort to distract Cordy and find out what the hell had happened to Doyle, Angel headed for the stairs, sweeping her up on his way.

Over his shoulder, he ordered, "Don't touch anything. There's a shower and clean clothes in the bedroom to your right." Then he turned to Cordelia. "I need as much information as you can get out of the computer on anyone who might come after Doyle, or use him to come after me."

She was deposited at the computer and he was on his way back down the stairs before she could catch her breath. He smiled grimly to himself. Now, to find out what had happened to his Doyle. Then find whoever had taken him, and rip them into very small bloody pieces.

He was sifting through the fragments of wood that used to be his dining room set when Wesley came hesitantly from the bedroom. In the soft gray pants and oversized sweatshirt, face buried in a book, he looked about twelve. Angel felt his anger dissolve. Wesley was another orphan, and Angel had long realized he had a blind spot for orphans, at least when he had a soul.

Angelus liked to eat them.

Shrugging the thought off, he went back to his search. "How's the translation coming?" he asked evenly.

"I think I've got something," Wesley answered softly. Neither of them mentioned the earlier unfortunate loss of control. By both of them.

"What?" Angel prodded. Nothing. A little blood, Doyle's by the scent, some spilled scotch. A lot of broken bits of wood. A scattered newspaper. Not a damned thing.

"Well, in context, 'bishwot li mat' means either 'beware of the danger' or 'beware of the peril,' quite similar really, although not particularly helpful since it's not specific. 'Po liowen' means, loosely translated, 'spinner of lies.' Then the warning again, 'bishwot,' then 'mackilet ne jalemon,' literally 'forager of destruction,' which I take to mean that this liar is some sort of killer who is gathering something from the people he kills. Perhaps like a serial killer collecting trophies?"

Ouch. Angel stared at the tiny pencil drawing and the one word, written in Doyle's distinctive scrawl. "He had a vision."

"Who?" Wesley asked, confused. "The serial killer?"

"Doyle," Angel answered absently, tracing the drawing with his fingertip.

"Who?" Wesley asked again.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Angel asked, ignoring Wesley's perpetual confusion, shoving the newspaper with the drawing under Wesley's nose. Blue eyes behind round glasses nearly crossed trying to focus on the doodle.

"No," Wesley answered finally.

"What?" Cordelia breezed around Angel, glancing at Wesley, then glancing back again, an arrested look in her eye. Angel sighed disgustedly.

"This!" He waved the paper in front of Cordelia. "Doyle had a vision, before he was kidnapped, and he sketched this out. Does it mean anything to you?"

Cordy stared at it for a long time. "Looks a little like a tuning fork that's been run over by a truck. A **big** tuning fork."

"Modern art?" suggested Wesley. "Perhaps one of the trophies the serial killer took?"

"Serial killer?" Cordelia's voice rose an octave in five syllables.

"Art," Angel wondered aloud. "Maybe ... Cordy, any luck with the computer?"

She shrugged, mouth twisting into a frown. "Not really. We haven't really been here long enough to have **that** many enemies. Except those sleazy lawyers that guy who tried to eat me was tied up with."

Angel stared at her for a long moment, mind racing. "That's it. Cordelia, you're brilliant."

She stared after him, a dumbfounded look on her face, as he ran up the stairs to the computer. They caught up with him there as he was searching down every connection he could find between the firm of Wolfram and Hart and modern art acquisitions. Three quarters of the way through his search results, he hit pay dirt.

"The Montecito Hotel on the west side. That sculpture was purchased at auction last November and displayed in the grand ballroom at the hotel. Wolfram and Hart was the firm representing the buyer, who was anonymous. That's what he saw. That's where we're going!"

Cordy grabbed the goody bag, and Angel started stuffing weapons into it. Wesley hovered uncertainly on the perimeter of the activity. Before Angel could say it, Cordelia beat him to it.

"Put your boots on, Wes! We're going to war!"

Doyle had lived through many unpleasant situations in his relatively young life. Discovering in his early twenties that half of him was a spiky, green demonic being with glowing red eyes had been a kick in the shorts. Losing his entire way of life hadn't been all that great. Nearly getting his brains eaten by his ex-wife's future husband wasn't a real highlight, although the subsequent broken engagement had been a nice surprise. And the visions The Powers That Be had gifted him with in payment for letting down his kinfolk certainly couldn't be considered a prize. Getting sparked to a crisp by a bunch of mad Nazi purebred demons hadn't been great fun, but the unexpected side effect of landing in Angel's bed had made the sunburn much easier to bear.

This, on the other hand, was _not_ his idea of a good time.

Barney hadn't been running from the man killing the demons -- he'd _been_ the one killing the demons. Trophy hunting, gathering totems from each demon, whichever portion of their bodies held the seat of their particular power. A Botlean demon's tongue, a Larot demon's hands, a Goren demon's horn. All for the purpose of making a fortune.

At auction. And he was the prize, well, prize. Something about a Seer's Eyes. One more thing to thank The Powers That Be for, if he wanted to push his nonexistent luck. There'd been a bloody bidding war, of all things, and he'd lost. Now Barney was clucking like a bleedin' hen at him and hovering over him with a pair of what looked like giant tongs.

_Sharpened_ giant tongs.

"Ah, now, ye don't want to be doin' that, now," he tried to reason with the unreasonable. "What good are eyeballs without the body to go along wit' 'em, eh? Not much use to have a bag of water with a cornea attached -- it's the brain that makes it worth the takin'!" Alright, so he was desperate. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to take his brain. At least it wouldn't be with shrimp forks this time.

"Shut up, Seer," Barney sneered at him. It sat oddly with his badly cut orange plaid sports jacket. Damnit, a man that stupidly dressed just shouldn't be a serious villain. There was something unnatural about it.

"Get on with it," a nasal bitch in a too-tight miniskirt and blazer ordered. "We haven't got all night."

"And why wouldn't we have, then?" Doyle asked brightly. "Got a prior engagement? If you're in such a rush, surely this can wait. I'm not going anywhere, after all, am I?" Behind him, unseen by his captors, his fingers worked feverishly at the knots on the ropes binding his hands. The strands gave just as a commotion at the door distracted everyone in the room.

Angel.

God bless 'im.

Bursting through the doors like the Angel of Death, full vampire face, fingers like talons and fangs flashing. Doyle had never seen such a beautiful sight.

Flanking the light of his life was Cordelia, staking, ducking, squealing, panting. She was lovely. Another man, a stranger to him, fought as well, awkwardly but with enthusiasm. Doyle recognized Angel's track suit on the man, and felt an unexpected, unwelcome surge of jealousy. The rush of adrenaline added to his already heightened urgency to escape, and he drove both fists directly forward just as Barney turned back to him, ready to pluck his eyes from his head.

Instead, he walked right into Doyle's double-fisted pile driver directly to his goolies. Barney was out for the rest of the fight, if not the rest of the decade. Angel was busily tearing the room to pieces, his helpers hot on his heels. Doyle managed to get his feet untied just as the bitch in the suit was escaping past him, cell phone clamped to her head. He took great pleasure in thrusting a foot between her ankles. She twisted as she fell, and he wasn't heartbroken to hear her neck snap as she landed.

Barney was writhing purposefully toward the door, and Doyle wasn't about to let him get away with it. Grabbing the Goren horn up, he drove it directly between Barney's shoulder blades. The sucking sound as the bastard's soul was torn from his body made Doyle feel much better about the events of the evening. Kicking at the pile of ash that was all that remained of his kidnapper, Doyle grinned ferally. A strong hand caught his arm and swung him around, and he managed to pull his swing. Damn good thing, too. He'd have really been pissed off if he'd accidentally staked his lover.

Angel's mouth covering his was the best thing he'd ever known. The world went away, and all there was left was strong arms holding him, a sturdy back under his hands, and the sure knowledge that breathing was vastly over-rated.

 

Wesley picked himself up off the floor and leaned unsteadily against the wall. He'd never been in quite such a situation before, and he searched the debris of the room for Angel, wanting to make sure the vampire hadn't seen him get ignominiously dumped in the corner early in the fighting. He'd embarrassed himself quite enough for one day. He finally found Angel in the far corner, wrapped around a dark-haired fair-skinned man who was kissing him as if he would never get enough. Wesley cleared his throat. He could feel himself blushing, from his ankles to his hairline. They looked simply ... ravenous for one another. Tearing his eyes away, he looked down to see Cordelia, also staring at the pair, a dreamy look on her face.

"Er, uhm," he stammered, trying to think of something, anything, to say to her. She turned slowly to look at him. The hazy look in her eyes gradually cleared, then sharpened into something he hadn't seen since their fumbling attempts at a kiss back in Sunnydale.

Lust.

He cleared his throat again.

She took his hand, hauled him out the door, and directly to the elevator. When he cleared his throat a third time with a vaguely interrogative noise, she held up a room key.

"Barney won't be needing this," she said firmly.

He couldn't form another word the rest of the night.

 

Angel wasn't sure how they got home, thankful only that they got there in one piece without being stopped by the cops for reckless driving.

Happily, it was a short trip.

"You okay?" His voice was deeper than usual. Nearly losing Doyle did that to him. Shook him up.

"Right as rain," came the soft answer. "You?"

"Great." You're all right. You're in one piece. They didn't kill you. They didn't maim you. I let you down, wasn't there to protect you, but you made it, we found you, you're all right. I love you.

All the things he couldn't say, probably never would be able to say, in one abrupt word. Doyle grinned at him. He'd heard every one of them, Angel didn't doubt. Doyle always did.

He nearly put the car into the wall of the garage, but he got it parked, got them into the elevator, got them up to their floor. Got them through the door, then dropped all pretense of normality and let his hunger break through. With a sound between a sob and a snarl, he pinned Doyle to the door and dove in, ripping his shirt open, tearing at his trousers, getting as much skin bare as fast as he could. Doyle was far from passive, pulling at Angel's sweater, pushing at his trousers. Both of them had vamped out, and the razor edge of fangs drew lines of blood along throat, collarbone, breast and shoulder, burning on their tongues and urging them on.

Doyle's arms were around his neck, Doyle's fangs sunk into his carotid artery, his tongue lapping at Angel's flesh. Doyle's legs were wrapped around his waist, and Angel's hands clutched at Doyle's ass, spreading him, impaling him, owning him as Doyle owned Angel. His thrusts mirrored the long pulls Doyle was making at his throat, and the world was spinning. Reality was nothing but this, his blood and Doyle's hunger, his hunger and Doyle's flesh. The pressure built with the strength of their joining, and Angel's fangs sank into the opposite side of Doyle's throat, drinking deeply, completing the circle.

The arms around his shoulders tightened, as did the grip on his cock, and the heat of Doyle's orgasm splashed against his belly as Doyle screamed against the side of his neck. The sensations washed over him and through him, shared through their blood and their bodies, and Angel screamed as well as he came. Blood trickled down between them, mixing with the sweat and the semen, tying them together. Angel collapsed against Doyle and they slid down to land together in a crumpled heap on the floor. Doyle shifted as they lay there, and Angel smiled as the soft spikes rubbed against him.

Later, much later, when they could move without falling over and could stand to be far enough apart from one another to actually walk, they'd get some bags of blood and stay in bed for the next three days. But that was for later. For the moment, they were perfectly content with the floor, and with each other. Angel petted the spikes running along Doyle's spine and licked lazily at the trail of blood pooling at his collarbone. There was a vibration against his neck, and, concentrating, he could hear Doyle crooning the tune of a very old music hall song.

"Doyle?" he asked muzzily. "Whatcha singing?"

"Ah, nothin' in particular," came the sleepy response. "Just somethin' me mother used to sing to me when I was a kid."

After listening to a few bars, Angel finally put a name to the song. When Irish Eyes are Smiling. He drew back far enough to smile down into the eyes in question, and thanked whatever Deity looked after wayward vampires that they were still there to smile. "So," he asked whimsically, "how _is_ your mother?"

 

** _end_ **


End file.
